Helpless
by darthsydious
Summary: Sherlock is helpless when it comes to Molly Hooper. People talk about how Molly is always floored by him, I say it's the other way around! Yes, title inspired by Hamilton the Musical. Sherlolly, Warstan if you squint. Also bonus Stamford, because we all love the long-suffering doctor.


Sherlock Holmes was staring. There was no other word for it. Open-mouthed, wide-eyed staring.

Across the room stood a woman a few years younger than him, not by much. He could deduce nearly everything about her:

 _Single, mid-thirties, cat-owner, usually uncomfortable in front of crowds unless she is sure of the subject she is discussing,_

Her brown hair was swept to the side, pinned attractively under her left ear. Under her lab coat she wore a charming yellow frock (sundress, that's what the style was called) and sensible flat shoes. As she stepped down from the podium, her wide eyes scanned the crowds, falling on him a moment before she lowered her head, blushing and turned away. For a moment, Sherlock couldn't breathe. Those large eyes held him fast, and he felt as if the whole world stopped spinning for a moment. The world may as well have, for he forgot everything else but those soft eyes sparkling at him, her pink mouth quirking a shy smile at him before turning away. That same mouth that had rattled off an astounding solution to an unsolved cause of death.

Sherlock was aware he was staring, he just wished he could do something about it. Instead his gaze followed her as she moved through the crowds.

Molly Hooper was her name, the pathologist for St. Barts. She'd just delivered the most comprehensive report on a mysterious death from several decades ago. She'd been working on it for several years now. The case had been put aside as a mysterious death, probably unsolvable, no one had been able to piece it together, but _she_ had. The findings had been so unique that the hospital urged her to have a press conference for it, display some of the material and then publish the rest. Sherlock had gone along with his closest friend, John Watson, who had heard of the case and was intrigued. Apparently the case had been something of a legend among medical students.

She spoke clearly, explaining how she'd come to ascertain the cause of death. He did not mistake the excitement that she managed to reign in. She was _fascinated_ by the case, as much as the rest of them, and her thrill at solving it, finding answers that no one else had found was clear to him. She was glowing. The case was amazing, indeed Sherlock wondered how he had never come across it. A closely-kept secret of a mysterious death never solved? How had he not found out about this?

Watching her from the edge of the crowd, Sherlock suddenly realized that John was no longer at his side. He looked around, then saw the short doctor making his way through the crowd, a beeline for Doctor Hooper.

 **Across the room...**

"That was amazing," John said, finally reaching her. "Absolutely incredible, I can't wait to tell my girlfriend Mary about it! When does your book come out?"

"Oh not for another six months," Molly said. "But thank you so much, I'm glad you enjoyed my findings."

"Absolutely, I still can't believe that it's finally solved," John went on, then held out his hand to her. "Doctor John Watson,"

Molly's face lit up. "Not the Doctor Watson who blogs about all those wonderful cases for Sherlock Holmes?"

"The same," he nodded with a grin.

Sherlock watched, quite glumly, from the sidelines. John had somewhat of a reputation with the ladies. He had thought John was dating someone already, but perhaps they'd broken things off. Of course he would have plenty in common with Molly Hooper. They were both doctors. Not to put his friend down, but Sherlock wasn't quite sure if John was up to par with Doctor Hooper. After all, here was a brilliant, dedicated, beautiful and capable pathologist. John had trouble remembering when to wash his socks. Sherlock was about to go home and leave John to make his conquest, but to his surprise, he heard John call his name. Turning, he was surprised to see him holding Molly's elbow, helping her through the crowd.

Once again, Sherlock felt himself staring, only this time, it was down, for Molly Hooper was quite short next to him. Her head only reached his shoulders. He had a terrible urge to scoop her up in his arms.

"Sherlock, may I introduce probably the finest pathologist in all of London, Doctor Molly Hooper, the new specialist registrar for Barts."

"Thank you for all of your services, your work is absolutely amazing. I've been um, following your blog," she glanced at John, then at Sherlock. "Doctor Watson's and yours," her cheeks tinged a shade pinker. "I loved your studies of different types of ash," she said, holding out her hand for him to shake. "I had a thought that different types of cigarettes might affect a body differently," she said suddenly.

The thought of performing an experiment with Molly Hooper nearly floored him. He managed somehow, to nod.

"I look forward to working with you," he replied, and grasped her hand and brought it up to his lips, pressing the back of it in a rather gallant manner that took Molly's breath away. John stared, gobsmacked. Taking advantage of his friend's silence, Sherlock drew Molly's hand into the crook of his elbow, directing her around to the exit. "I wonder, Doctor Hooper, if you would indulge me in a private tête–à–tête, your findings are intriguing and I have some questions regarding your theories."

"Only if I may inquire as to some of your own cases," she replied, chin up.

He paused only for a moment, an appreciative smile forming. Molly Hooper was no mouse, and he had the distinct feeling she'd match him, measure for measure.

Mike Stamford came to stand beside John Watson, who was still quite stunned by his friend's actions.

"That was surprising," Mike said, watching Molly leave arm-in-arm with the consulting detective.

"That's putting it mildly," John agreed.

They watched, shocked again, as Sherlock helped Molly into her coat, hands lingering at her shoulders for a touch longer than necessary, (though Molly didn't seem at all to mind, judging by her blushing smile), after which Sherlock held the door for her, gesturing for her to step out ahead of him, looking very much like a love-sick teenager, fairly tripping over himself.

They watched them through the windows as they went along arm in arm as if they'd always known each other.

"The boy's helpless," Stamford laughed. John shook his head, grinning.

It was a trait Sherlock never did seem to shake. He'd be lost in Molly's eyes, her presence was arresting, her soft-spoken demeanor, even when she was angry at him. He found that the things he once thought inconsequential were what mattered most, and he found himself making room for Molly in his life, and she did the same for him. Years later, happily married, Sherlock Holmes could honestly say his wife still floored him with a simple look, and he was not at all shy to admit it.


End file.
